Up to this time George Ackerman had always messed with the officers, but that night he took supper with Bob's squad, because both he and they considered that he belonged to it. During the progress of the meal he reminded the corporal that the latter had promised to tell him a story.
"Oh yes," said Bob, after thinking a moment. "I was telling you, I believe, that if Mr. Wentworth killed that Indian he would be arrested and tried for murder. Well, that's an Indian's idea of justice, and it seems to be the agents' idea too. The Indians think they have a perfect right to kill and scalp whenever they feel like it, but if a white man kills one of them it is an awful thing. If they can't get hold of the man who did the shooting or any of his relations, they look to the government for pay. On a certain occasion a scouting-party of ten men was surprised and utterly wiped out. The surprise was so complete that every one of the party was killed at the first fire, with the exception of a corporal, who had just time to knock over two of the reds before he too was shot. Shortly afterward a peace was patched up, and a band of braves came in, bringing with them an old woman for whom they asked a government pension because her two sons had fallen in battle. Inquiries were made, and it turned out that these two sons were the very Indians who had been killed by the corporal. What do you think of such impudence?"
George did not know what to think of it, and probably the reader doesn't either; but this very incident is on record.
By daylight the next morning the camp was deserted. The main body of the troops was riding rapidly toward Fort Lamoine, and a few miles behind it came the herd which Captain Clinton had recaptured. It was moving leisurely along in front of Mr. Wentworth and George, who controlled it with less difficulty than the rest of the squad would have experienced in managing a dozen cattle. Behind them came Bob and his men, with the two boys, who were mounted on a couple of their father's horses which had been found with the herd. George's quick eye had already noticed that there were at least half a dozen different brands among the cattle, and he told himself that when the animals bearing these brands had been delivered up to their lawful owners, Mr. Wentworth would have very little stock left.
Bob and his troopers enjoyed this "picnic" by being lazy. They had nothing to do worth speaking of but to follow along in the rear of the herd and talk to the boys, the most of the work being performed by George and Mr. Wentworth, who during the first part of the journey managed the cattle both day and night. They offered to assist in any way they could, but the practised herders did not need them, and besides, they were afraid to trust them.
"I don't want to lose these steers and horses again, after all the trouble I have had to get them," Mr. Wentworth always replied. "I know you are good soldiers, or else you couldn't have got my boys back for me; but you can't herd cattle. The least awkward movement on your part would send them galloping back toward the Staked Plains again. Wait until they get over their fright, and then you can try your hands at guarding them during the night."
On the afternoon of the fifth day Bob noticed that George's field-glass was often brought into requisition both by himself and Mr. Wentworth, and on riding forward to inquire the cause of it, he was informed that they were looking for Mr. Taylor's ranche.
"And who is Mr. Taylor?" was Bob's next question.
"He is one of Mr. Wentworth's neighbors who was raided by the Indians. We know it, for we have some of his cattle with us; but whether or not they did him any damage beyond stealing his stock, we don't know; and we can't tell, either, until we find his house if it is still standing, or the ruins of it if it has been destroyed."
"Then we must be getting pretty near our journey's end," said Bob, whose arms and shoulders began to ache when he thought of the tedious routine of drill and guard-duty upon which he must enter as soon as he returned to the fort.